Me and My First S'More
Today I am thankful. Gratitude fills me as I stroke
the soft pristine white Charmin tissue. I look around at the four walls and the
door with a lock and I smile. The tender sound of the melodic flush brings a
tear to one eye. No spillage caresses my cheek, but I’m definitely misty.
I love my bathroom. Never will I take it for granted
again.
This past weekend I experienced “real camping” (my
brother Phil’s words) for the first time since I was a teenager. At 15, I spent
a week backpacking through the Gila Wilderness in New Mexico. I think back to
that time and the lack of facilities does not make any of my memories. At 50,
with a history of tummy issues, life is different. Running water is not just a
luxury, it’s a need. (Puuullllease, you missionaries and campers of the world,
I know, I know. This is a first world issue I’m talking about and I may come
off spoiled. I get it!)
In a wilderness a few hours southwest of Denver, we
camped for two nights. After we set up our tent and cot, I asked to be shown the
restroom. I was guided up a winding path through trees and brush and came upon
an old fallen tree.
“Behind that.”
“What? Where are the walls?”
“No walls. But you’ll be quite hidden back here.”
I traipsed around the tree and found a box with a
bag in it covered by a toilet seat, a container with toilet paper to one side
and a box of kitty litter on the other.
Quickly, I weighed my options. 1) Fake a heart
attack and demand to be taken to the hospital, cancelling our camping
expedition or 2) Deal with this backward, antiquated powder room.
The first time I took advantage of El Bano I knew
that someone/something must be watching. Probably a bear and his family,
deciding if they wanted the white meat woman for breakfast or dinner. But I
didn’t see them and I endured. Later that day I asked our group what to do if I
saw a bear. My nephew Hunter, a 19 year old who has his dad’s demented humor,
said, “Aunt Robbie, just try to get really small and whimper. And look the bear
in the eyes.”
No one commented so I said, “Okay, really? That
works?” A smattering of snickers. “Tell me the truth!”
Betty, a wonderful Godly woman, said, “Robbie, just
run. If I see a bear, I don’t have to run faster than it. Just faster than
you.”
Everyone laughed at Betty’s reference to the old
joke. I just stared at my former
friend. J
The first night of camping I was given two sleeping
bags to make sure I kept warm on my cot in my tent. I thought I would be
extremely smart and take apart the sleeping bags and use them as two blankets.
After I huddled underneath, the temps dropped to 5 below. Now my husband, who
fell asleep in his sleeping bag before I said “Good night,” seemed oblivious to
the frozen tundra inside our tent. But I knew I would be found frozen in the
morning, a 50 year old white piece of meat all ready for cryogenic studies.
And then…of course…I found I needed to use the
latrine. My brother, the expert camper who I love, had situated our tent about
100 yards away from the facilities. In the middle of the arctic, that distance
equals 5 miles. I got up, all my layers still upon my body, put my shoes on and
headed out for a 2 a.m. trek. My trusty flashlight led the way and I prayed
every step. I prayed that the fear of being that bear’s midnight snack would
not be realized. I prayed that my white bottom would not glow in the dark and
provide a spotlight for said bear to target. In my frosty state, I tried to
remember if I was supposed to run or get small and whimper. I couldn’t think so
I cursed both Hunter and Betty.
I made it safely back to my tent. By that time, it
occurred to me that using the sleeping bags like burritos would be a good
choice. So I zipped up both, put one inside the other, crawled in and prayed
that I would not die.
Morning light communicated that I had survived.
That day Phil informed me that sleeping bags are
designed to reflect body heat and by taking off the many layers of clothes I’d
worn, I would utilize the bag to its best intended use. That night I took his
advice and wore very little as I scrunched up into the bags tossing and turning
like a puppy trying to find the best position. Finally I found it and felt hope
for reverie. However, the temperature again dropped quickly to at least 20
below. I shivered and turned and glared at sleeping John who was clueless to the
misery of his wife. (The next day my brother Phil and our friend Bennie had the
nerve to remark on how HOT the night had been…what???)
But in the great words of that Etta James song, AT
LAST, I found peace and a tiny bit of warmth and hope for the future comfort of
all that is my civilization.
Then I had to use the little girls’ room. Or in this
case, everyone in the forest’s room.
A great debate ensued in my mind. Do I really need
to go? How badly? Maybe I could just take the sleeping bags in to a dry
cleaner. If so, I could experience warmth…at least for a little bit. My mind
went further into contemplation, exploring my mortality and if it was indeed,
time for me to buy Depends. Before I started shopping for nursing homes, I made
my decision.
Wearing very little, I wrestled with my sleeping
bags and got up to find my clothes and put them on. Many, many layers. I cursed
my brother for a little bit and then I changed targets as I watched the hubs
snore in deep sleep. Yes, I made noise as I changed. Purposeful, loud noise to
try to wake him up. No use. He was gone.
Taking my flashlight, I trekked the tundra again,
this time almost wishing those bears would come and eat me, ending my wretched
woe. The box/bag greeted me like a mocking friend.
“Hi! I hoped you’d drop by.”
I sneered at it and dreamed of private ladies
lounges with aromatic soaps and lotions and soft towels. The next morning, as I
travelled to the lavatory, the water closet, the loo for the last time, I
looked upon the broken down tree and the surrounding brush and forest and I
became Scarlett O’Hara, (and mixed up some of her quotes.)
“As God is my witness,” I pledged, “I will make it
home!” (This was said aloud in a Georgian accent – you need to know that
detail) “I will say thank you to my restroom and I will not come back here. For
tomorrow is another day! And not one for camping without running water!”
The great thing about being an adult living in
America is that I don’t HAVE to ever
camp again without running water. Unless the Commies invade us and hold a gun
to my head, I never have to experience this again.
With that thought, I am thankful. I have found
myself on occasion this week, passing by the bathroom and flushing for no
particular reason. But I smile. As I flush, I flush with freedom, with liberty
and justice for all. Amen.
(The camping trip did
have some WONDERFUL moments. Sign up for my weekly Joyvotion by giving me your
email and I will send you a devotion of the cool things God showed me on my
camping trip. J )
